Chapter Text
Somewhere, on this quiet winter night, a man waits for a woman to arrive. He has not spent time alone with her for many years, but he hopes that memories of what they once shared will be enough to convince her to help him.
And, by the name of Merlin, does he need help. The prophecy’s words still ring in his ears, days after hearing them. He’s tortured himself, going over and over it again in his head, finally landing on the realisation that convincing an old friend to help him is the only way this won’t end in disaster.
She is late. He hopes that she hasn’t changed her mind about coming – it would be the sort of thing she would do. She’s not the kind of witch who thinks sending cancellation in advance is necessary, no. She’s the kind of witch who revels in the thought of someone waiting alone in the snow, growing colder by the second, only for her never to appear. She is, at the crux of the matter, not a very nice person.
Then again, neither is he.
The snow falls in gentle flakes, gathering against his long winter cloak like icing sugar. His breath puffs out in small clouds, the tip of his nose glowing red. When she does arrive, he decides, he will remind her that it’s rude to make someone wait like this. He used to put up with it, back in the day, but not anymore. He's no longer a foolish young wizard besotted with a talented young witch. They’re both grown and old now, and good grief, she should have better manners than this.
Finally, through the gentle flurry, he sees a figure appear at the end of the street. The figure moves closer, strolling at a leisurely pace, as if the weather were as pleasant as a warm summer’s evening. She had always liked to be kissed under the snow. He remembers that.
The woman stops in front of him. Her face is older, more life-worn, but still undoubtedly her. She does not apologise for being late. He does not acknowledge it.
“I hope you’ve arranged somewhere private for us to speak,” The woman says.
“Of course,” He replies. Out of nervous instinct, or perhaps just old habit, he emits a short, sharp laugh. “I may be old, but I am not yet senile.”
They settle into a private room at the back of the pub. On the table is a complementary bowl of sherbet lemons. He orders butterbeer, craving its warmth. She orders firewhiskey, because she likes the way it burns her tongue.
“What is it that you want me from me, exactly?” She asks, never one to beat around the bush.
For a moment, he feels a little sad. It would have been nice, if circumstances were different, to sit and catch up. They could pretend to like each other again, just for old times sake.
Still, they are old now, and the past is the past.
“You have heard the prophecy, I’m sure. Someone like you, in your position, it is your job to hear about these things, no?”
“I’ve heard it, certainly. But I’m not too sure as to why you want to talk to me about it. Something tells me you’re not here to renounce your beliefs and join the resistance.”
The man takes a moment to stall, wanting to delay the moment a little longer. He presses his hands around the butterbeer, enjoying the warmth. He wishes he could feel as warm as this drink all the time.
But again. The choices one makes in life.
“The prophecy is about her,” He finally says. “And I…I am scared. I am scared that I will lose her.”
There is a heavy pause.
“If it is about her, then that would mean…” She tails off, lifting a singular, questioning brow. Slowly, he nods. “Well.” She cracks a small smile. “Look at you, haven’t changed at all after all these years. Does she know?”
“No.”
“And the prophecy? I assume the rest of your friends have heard it too. Tell me, who’s the mole down in Mysteries? No, no, don’t tell me. I think I’ve already got a good idea.”
“This is hypothetical, you know. All between…” He tails off, uncertain what to call them.
“Old friends,” She supplies easily. “Of course. Don’t worry. I know how to play the long game.”
The woman takes a sherbet lemon from the bowl. She unwraps it, the plastic crinkling in the quiet. The only other noise is the soft crackling from the fireplace.
“Do you remember that evening in Verona, down by the river? It was so cold that winter. I remember there was a thin sheet of ice over the water. The boats were stranded.”
“I remember,” He says, indulging her. “You still wanted ice cream for dessert.”
“It was plum gelato,” She shrugs, as if that explained it all. “I simply could not resist.”
“I remember that. You always did have trouble…resisting.” He dares to rise his lips into the echo of a long-gone flirtatious smile.
Her face remains carefully stoic, so he’s quick to cover it up with a sip of his drink.
“I ask you again, then, what exactly it is that you want from me.”
“I cannot leave. Nobody leaves Twelve. You know that.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Once they know, they will not let her stay. They will kill her.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me. It’ll be one less jail cell for me to find in Azkaban.” The woman tilts her head, cheeks pinching together as she sucks at the sweet. “What are you asking for? She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who needs protection. That is what you’re asking for, isn’t it? You want me to look after her when your organisation realises just who she is.”
The man swallows.
“Prophecies can be wrong,” He says. “Everyone knows this. The future, it is not set. It can change.”
“True,” She agrees amicably. “But if that’s what you believe, why are you here?”
“I fear it is already happening,” He admits. “There is – she has a fixation. I don’t know if she’s aware of it yet, but I am. I have seen her go through something similar before. She does not know when to let go. She does not understand where the lines are.”
“It sounds like you still view her as a child. Maybe it is time you let her spread her wings and make her own decisions.”
He shakes his head in disagreement.
“Her decisions are always bad. She is too impulsive, too arrogant. She does not understand the word no. What she wants, she finds a way to get.”
“It sounds like you love her an awful lot.”
He laughs, sudden tears gathering in his eyes. He blinks them back quickly, turning towards the fireplace to hide his sudden emotion. “She is family. I would do anything for her.”
They talk a little longer, and reach a tentative agreement. After both their drinks are drained, they stand to leave. He takes a couple sherbet lemons to keep in his pocket. Sometimes his blood sugar gets low. Other times, he is just greedy.
Outside in the snow, she turns to him again, her cloak pulled up over her head against the flurry. It is falling much stronger now, white blurring the entire street. He is glad that he can disapparate back to his home. He would hate to be an underage wizard forced to travel in this weather.
“I’m afraid I will be as harsh on you as the others, in the end,” The woman reminds him.
“You do not know the future for certain,” He reminds her. “I would not be so arrogant just yet.”
She smiles.
“Arrogant?” She echoes. “I think you’re applying that word to the wrong one of us, old friend. Get home safe. All kinds of awful things can happen to one in this sort of weather. I’d hate for that to be you.”
The woman disapparates into a whirl of dark, flapping robes. Once more, the man stands alone in the cold.